“Thettalos!” I said. “I believe you are asking me to put on this whole production simply to oblige your boy friend.”
“My …?” He stared, laughed, then said, “Alas, you flatter my hopes. But it is true he is anxious to see it. I would have done it myself, if I could have raised a script in Pella.”
“Couldn’t he lend you his?”
“He’s never had one. It is only that he has heard it follows the Iliad, most of which he knows by heart.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s something. Your last flame could not read. I might really do it, if it’s so long since they had it there; I should enjoy it myself.”
“Good. I promise you won’t regret it. But let your third man fly on as Apollo. I can’t spare you, dearest Niko. The crane-man drinks.”
“I’ve never done it, except that once in Delphi as an offering to the god.” I fell silent, thinking of the war there, the very sanctuary plundered of its gold. Nothing is sacred to our age.
In due course I took my company to Pella, which gave us its usual eager welcome. By now, however, they are used to actors going to bed early before the play instead of drinking till dawn. The noise downstairs is something one must put up with.
King Philip has adorned King Archelaos’ theater; everything of the best. The crane-man was sober. Just before I went on, I touched, as I always do, the antique mask of Apollo. I no longer wear it; no one would understand it now; but I take it everywhere, thinking, like Lamprias’ old friend, that it brings me luck. The god looked stern but serene. I thought he said to me, “You must be good today; there are reasons. But don’t fret; I will look after you.” I had been doubting myself before, but it left me as I went on, and I don’t think I was ever better. At the end I thought, I must never do it again, for fear of tempting the gods.
There was a crowd in the dressing room. I was still in costume, with the dresser combing my mask, when there was a stir about the door, and the people parted, just like extras for a big upstage entrance.
A boy was standing there, about fourteen or so, with fire-gold hair lying loose on his brow and down his neck. All Macedonians have blue eyes, but not of a blue like that. Half a dozen other lads, about his age or somewhat older, were standing behind him. When I saw that none of them pushed in front, I guessed who he was.
He came in, sweeping his gaze about the room, and said, “Where is Achilles?”
It is a big theater; even from the front row, one is a good way off when one takes one’s bow. I said, “Here, my lord.”
He stood still, looking. His eyes were big, which made them look even bluer. I was sorry that so beautiful a boy should be disappointed; at his age, they always half expect the face to match the mask. I supposed him at a loss for words, till he came nearer and said quietly, “That is most wonderful. There must be a god in your soul.”
I did not spoil it by telling him I was lucky to have kept my teeth. I said, “I had a good father, sir, to start me off young, and I keep up my practice.”
“Then you’ve been an actor always, all your life?” When I assented he nodded his head as if this answer satisfied him, and said, “And you always knew.” He asked me one or two questions about technique, which were far from foolish; I could see that he had talked with Thettalos. Presently he looked at the people standing round and said, “You have leave to go.”
They bowed out. When the lads behind him started to follow, he reached out and caught one by the arm, saying, “No, you stay, Hephaistion.” The tall boy came back with a lightening of all his face, and stood close beside him. He said to me, “The others are the Companions of the Prince; but we two are just Hephaistion and Alexander.”
“So it was,” I said, smiling at them, “in the tent of Achilles.”
He nodded; it was a thought he was used to. He came up and touched my flimsy stage armor to see how it was made. On his arm, half covered by his big gold bracelet, was a thick scar one would have thought had been done in battle if he had not been so young. His face was a little longer than the sculptors’ canon, just enough to make the canon look insipid. His skin was clear, with a ruddy, even tan; he was fresh, yet warm. A sweetness came from him; not bath oil, but something of himself, like the scent of a summer meadow. I would have liked to draw him nearer, to feel the glow from him; but I would as soon have touched a flame, or a lion.
He noted that we had the place to ourselves, and said, “I have something to tell you. You shall be the first to hear. One day, I shall make a sacrifice at Achilles’ tomb. Hephaistion will do it for Patroklos. It is a vow we have made.”
Good news, I thought, if King Philip means to turn eastward. I said, “That’s in Persia, my lord.”
“Yes.” He looked serene, like Apollo among the Lapiths. “When we are there, you shall come out and play The Myrmidons.”
I shook my head, saying, “Even though it is soon, I shall be too old.”
He looked at me with his head a little sideways, as if reckoning the time. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I want to hear your voice on the plain of Troy. No one else will be the same, now. So if I ask you, you will come?”
As if he had bidden me to supper across the street, I answered, “Yes, my lord. I will come.”
“I knew that you would. You understand these things. There is a question I have to ask you.”
Someone coughed in the doorway. A small, dapper, thin-legged man came in, with the beard of a philosopher. He looked at the boy with dissatisfaction, like a hen that has hatched an eagle chick. The boy looked back, and then at me, as if saying, One must take men as they are, no sense in making a fuss. “Nikeratos,” he said, “let me present my tutor, Aristoteles. Or perhaps you have met in Athens?”
It was plain he did not recall it, and plainer still that he didn’t like being presented to an actor. One could hardly blame him. I smoothed it over as best I could. He had left the Academy, so someone had told me, in displeasure when Speusippos became its head. I had not known he was here.
Setting this business briskly aside, the boy said to me, “There is one thing in the Iliad I have never understood; I was hoping the play might explain it. Why didn’t Achilles kill Agamemnon in the very beginning? Then Patroklos and the other heroes need not have died. Have you heard why it was?”
“Well, Athene counseled prudence. Agamemnon was the greater king. And he was supreme commander.”
“But what a general! He wasted his men’s lives. He never really led them. He robbed his best officer, to cover a debt he owed himself, and had to beg his pardon. He started a rout with a stupid order, and then couldn’t even get them in hand; he had to let Odysseus do it. Can you think of anything more disgraceful? Supreme commander! He couldn’t have stopped a Thracian cattle raid. I can’t think why Achilles didn’t kill him. He owed it to the Greeks. They knew him. They’d all have followed him, and finished off the war. No one but Agamemnon could have made it last ten years. They should have taken Troy between two winters.”
Aristoteles fidgeted, trying, I perceived, to get the prince away without telling him to come, in case he might say no and authority be lost. I could see the boy taking it in, not as boys do, but like a man measuring men. I think it amused him, too, but not enough to keep him long from his thought.
“If Achilles had taken Troy, I doubt he’d have sacked it, not if Patroklos was alive. (If they’d killed him—yes, then!) It was such a waste. The Trojans were fine, brave people. They could have made a great kingdom together. Think where Troy was! And all those ships, never used at all. He could have married one of Priam’s daughters. He would never have stooped to enslave the royal ladies. I am sure of that.” He gazed out past me, seeing it all. The shine from him almost scorched me. He said, speaking the verse well, “Sing, Goddess, the destroying anger of Achilles, Peleus’ son, which brought great sorrows to the Greeks. Many the brave man’s soul it sent to Hades, and flung the flesh of heroes for the gorging of dogs and kites … But it wasn’t his anger. It was his not seeing at first what he had to do.”